


Fiat Lux

by ObliObla



Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [16]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fuckruary 2020 (Lucifer TV), Light Angst, Morning Sex, Post-Season/Series 04, Smut, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22781251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: Sunlight drifts idly through gossamer curtains, and Lucifer groans, seizing an unused pillow and pulling it over his face. Yesterday was difficult as these things go—as many of themhavegone since he returned from Hell—and the evidence of the remnants of those particular doubts and fears arc from his back in twin sheets of dark, leathern flesh.Well, damn.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619344
Comments: 35
Kudos: 245





	Fiat Lux

**Author's Note:**

> Day 16! (Still getting caught up) Prompt: Leather/Mummification (let's call this more inspiration than literal)

Sunlight drifts idly through gossamer curtains, and Lucifer groans, seizing an unused pillow and pulling it over his face. Yesterday was difficult as these things go—as many of them  _ have  _ gone since he returned from Hell—and the evidence of the remnants of those particular doubts and fears arc from his back in twin sheets of dark, leathern flesh. His unfortunate skin condition and the worst case of red eye devilishly possible seem to have blessedly dissipated in the night. He rolls his shoulders, but the wings stay stubbornly corporeal. At least the trailing spikes haven’t torn the mattress apart.

“It’s too  _ early,” _ Chloe whines from where she rests in his arms, back against his chest, and his attention is torn from where he holds his extra appendages at an awkward angle behind him. It is so much easier to focus on the here and now when she’s with him. She doesn’t keep the nightmares from coming, but she never stops trying to chase away his shadows, and he finally has come to accept that no matter the form he’s in he won’t hurt her. She grabs at his pillow and attempts to tug it over her own head to block out the rising sun. It falls onto the floor, and she groans. “Go back to sleep.”

He does his damndest to acquiesce, burying his face in the strawberry and honey of her hair, caressing her soft skin with hands that have thankfully lost their claws. She shivers in the unseasonably cold temperatures, turning onto her back, and he lets the tip of his wing trail down to carefully hook the sheet and pull it over her hip. He accidentally skims her thigh and withdraws, forcing the wing to slump back, curled up behind him. This is a day of rest, after all, and they both deserve it.

But sleep eludes him, so instead he indulges in his favorite pastime that doesn’t involve his tongue: namely, watching her eyelashes flutter with her relaxation, her lips part with her slow breaths, and her brow furrow with her dream. As the sun continues to rise, it cuts light and shadow across her face in shifting waves, and it’s all he can do to not follow their passage with gentle fingertips.

Some time after the day has truly begun, and he’s considering getting up to prepare some espresso for them to partake of on the balcony, wings be damned, she rouses from sleep and glances up at him.

“Lucifer, you’re staring.”

“Yes.”

She shakes her head fondly, turns onto her side, toward him this time, and nuzzles against his chest. Her fingertips trail down his stomach and over his hips, and if he weren’t already half hard from their proximity and the residual tension from last night’s Devil bod intrusion, he certainly would be now. Her hands retreat from his fun bits back up to skim his shoulders, gently caress his neck, and cup his cheeks. Her touch is firm but not possessive, and he wonders if she’s assuring herself of his return to normalcy. Those moments are not only frightening to him; she’s not as good at hiding her fear as she thinks, but he knows she’s afraid  _ for _ him, not of him, and that is enough to assuage some of his worry.

“Hi,” she whispers as her thumb shifts down to trace his bottom lip. He opens his mouth and licks over the pad of her finger.

“Good morning, Detective.”

She glances down between their bodies and raises an eyebrow. “A very good morning, apparently.”

He grins, utterly unashamed, glad to refocus her attention. But instead of slinking down his body like her devious smirk suggests, she reaches tentatively for the edge of his higher wing and runs her hand over the skin there. He contents himself with the fact that they are, at least, softer than they look. Once, he would have fled at a touch this gentle to his more monstrous parts, but for her he will stay. 

Her fingertips skate over what she can reach, back and forth in slow passes, until he’s slumping into the mattress. Only then does she toss the sheet aside, slide down his body, and take him into her mouth. His wing sags, brushing her shoulder while she slowly sucks, and he reaches down to tangle his hand in her hair.

He is glad to take things slow, moaning softly as his hips roll and her hand comes up to stroke what she isn’t meeting with lips and tongue. She taps his hip, and he looks down to see her eyes fixed on him, lips pulling into a smile around him. She tightens her grip and closes her eyes, and his fall shut after her. He gives in to her rhythm, to the soft, wet sounds they make between them, breath hitching as he groans.

“Feels so bloody good, love. I... I...”

He tries to hold back, to pull away, but she reaches up with her free hand and scratches down the line of his wing membrane, and it’s all he can do to tighten his hand in her hair as a warning before his hips are jerking and he’s coming with a whine high in his throat. Despite himself, his wing pulls forward around her shoulders and back as he drifts back to awareness, and he frowns at it, torn from his bliss. 

“My apologies,” he mutters as she pulls away, relaxing back into the cradle his wing is insistent on forming. The other flutters behind him, denied sensation. “Bloody things are so inconvenient.”

She wipes her mouth and smiles, crawling back up his body. “It’s okay,” she says, kissing along his jaw before pressing her lips to his. She holds his lower lip between her teeth before she pulls away. “I kind of like it.”

He blinks, then blinks again, glancing over his shoulder at the large, unwieldy monstrosities, gleaming with spikes and cruelty. What is there about them to  _ like? _ When he looks back at her, she’s watching him with a level of mischievousness that his naughty bits are finding incredibly encouraging. “R-really?” he sputters eventually.

She slips her leg between his, rests her hands on his chest, and nods. “They’re you,” she says simply, “and I like you. Plus”—she runs her thumb over the nearest bone, and he shudders into her touch—”they’re soft and warm and I like how it feels when I touch them. Do  _ you  _ like how it feels when I touch them?”

“I…” Her knuckles brush over the membrane, up over the ridge beside the thumb spike, and he inhales sharply. It’s not that she hasn’t touched them before, but the act of asking if he enjoys it forces his brain to consider things he before left unexplored. The intention of the motion makes his head spin as desire and fear and pleasure and uncertainty ricochet around his brain, mixing in strange, unfamiliar ways. But he knows the intensity of the need in the pit of his stomach, the way his body presses into her touch with a sweet desperation that shortens his breaths. “Don’t stop,” he gasps, and her smirk gentles into something that makes her eyes shine.

He can trust her. And he can trust himself; at least, enough to keep his sharpness away from all her softness.

Her brow furrows as she considers the logistics. She pulls off of him and encourages him to lay his lower wing flat on the sheets in front of him. He sits and works out the pain the awkward angle caused before lying back down with it outstretched. It’s always rather more wing than he expects; this set is, he can admit, rather more flexible than the feathered one.

She kneels on the bed, slips one hand onto the membrane, and asks, “Can you hold me?”

He frowns, looking between her and the wing. The bony,  _ leathery _ wing, trailing end marked by spikes. The unpleasantly dark and raw crimson of the flesh. The strangeness of skin so thin that light can shine through it. 

“I… Yes?”

She waits another beat for him to object before crawling carefully over the spikes and lowering herself to rest on her stomach. The wing adjusts beneath her as she settles, and her weight and her warmth are immediately overwhelming. He can hold her, he’s certain; he’s less certain whether he can stand it. She presses a kiss to the curve, and the slightest brush of her lips makes him shake. Her hands aren’t idle either, scratching and soothing, exploring and massaging, and his nerves come alive in a cruel, beautiful rush. She rests her cheek against him, stilling for a moment.

“How are you doing?”

He nods reflexively, licking his lips. If there are words for this feeling, he doesn’t know what they are and he no longer cares. When she rolls her hips, he can feel her heat against him, and he shudders, feeling too much. But it’s still not enough. It was so much easier to numb himself to these blasted things before Chloe was nipping along the arch of the wing, rubbing her breasts against the membrane, grinding her clit against one of the finger bones.

“Chloe,  _ Chloe…”  _ He rolls onto his side and boldly pulls his other wing over to press against her back. And he can feel… everything. Every inch of her body sliding and gripping and rolling over skin as sensitive as his hands. She cries out at the pressure and scratches him, and his eyes fall shut as he is abruptly dragged from thinking of the wings as nothing more than unfortunate growths to attempt to tolerate to truly feeling them, as real as any part of him. 

And then he starts to move.

The wings were useful in Hell to impress and intimidate alike, and he had flown with them several times. But he’d never truly tested their flexibility or sensitivity, not when the sight of them filled him with uncertainty that was anathema for the lord of damnation. But now…  _ Now, _ he can refashion this thing of torment into a thing of pleasure. He flutters his wing under her cheek, and she sighs, kissing him again. He ripples the membrane over her arse, and she shivers, sparking his nerves in a thousand places, like burning points of light. He tries to simulate the feeling of a hand brushing over her breasts, down her stomach to slide between her legs, and she cries out, thighs parting reflexively. 

And then he feels her, as warm and wet as if his hand were cupping her there, not a lifted section of wing. She moans against him, and the sound vibrates through his body even as he frowns in concentration, testing the limits of the wings’ flexibility. He raises the ridge he created beneath her, pressing down harder with his top wing, and...

“Oh. Oh, _ shit.” _

She loses herself to grinding against him, and he loses himself in feeling her pleasure thrum through the wings. Such ugliness fostering such beauty—he groans at the twisted grace of it. He can feel when she approaches the edge, pressed so close her fluttering inner muscles tremble against him. He reaches out and takes her hand, grounding her as she crests her peak and is suspended there for a single, glorious moment.

She shivers as she comes down, panting against his wing. He can feel her pulse beating strongly everywhere their skin touches and swallows down a moan at the sensation. She shoves at his upper wing, and he withdraws, giving her space, letting her cool down. But she doesn’t want space it seems, turning onto her side, facing him.

“That was… Thank you.” 

“Thank  _ me?” _

She nods and slips closer, cupping his jaw and leaning up for a kiss. “Thank you for trusting me with you.”

Lost for words as he often is with her, he slips his tongue past her lips and over her teeth in answer, hoping she understands what he means when he brushes her hair from her sweaty face and strokes his thumb over her cheek.

After they part, they breathe slowly into each other’s mouths, and he’s considering adding a proper breakfast to his to-do list when she reaches down and takes him in hand. All thought ceases but for a clear, distinct,  _ Oh. _

“I thought of something else we could do,” she says casually as if his brain isn’t currently trying to leak out of his ears, or maybe his cock. Oh his cruel, brilliant,  _ wonderful  _ minx. She adds a twist to her motions, and he loses all conscious thought again. When he reacquires the barest edge of coherency, he reaches down and stills her hand.

“And what...” he pants, “is that…?”

She grins and leans up to nip his lower lip. “Get on your back.”

Oh.  _ Oh. _

He rolls them over, wings rising to bow against the headboard with a joyful instinct he refuses to smother. She giggles at his sudden exuberance, and he laughs, head thrown back, legs shifting restlessly. She sits up, straddles him, and he smiles. Together, they line him up, and she sinks down with a pleased sigh, taking a moment to adjust when their hips meet.

He cups her breasts as she begins to rock, watching her eyelashes flutter, her lips part, her brow furrow. Her rhythm slowly accelerates, and he matches her movements, snapping his hips, grinding up into her every time he bottoms out. He pinches her nipples, and she gasps, leaning forward to brace against his chest. Her hair falls like a curtain around them, shielding them from the sun. 

They slow for a long moment, moving against each other leisurely. His fingertips trail over her throat, her jaw, thumb brushing her lower lip. She takes it into her mouth, biting gently, and his wings begin to ache with an unformed desire. Instead of pushing the feeling down, he opens himself up to it, taking a deep breath.

“I have an idea,” he whispers.

“Show me,” she says just as quietly.

He is still tentative when he brings the wings down, but when the brush of them over her back makes her gasp, he relaxes. Carefully, he wraps them lightly around her, shoulder to hip. She arches her back and presses against them, changing his angle within her and making them both groan. Slowly, he sits up, takes her weight on his arms, and rearranges them until he’s kneeling on the bed.

“Alright?” he asks as he draws their hips flush again.

_ “Yes,” _ she moans as he starts up a deep, grinding motion, bringing them together over and over even as his wings continue to tease and test and shift. His hips rolls into her, and she keens, bracing herself on his shoulders for a few strokes until he guides her to relax back against the wings. 

“I’ve got you,” he says as he allows the wings to overlap further, slowly pulling their bodies closer. “I’ve got you.”

When the lower edges of wing wrap carefully around her thighs, and her breasts are pressed against his chest, she lets her head fall into his shoulder. There is no part of her he cannot feel now, no sensation he’s missing. Their arms are pinned between their bodies and the wings, but he doesn't need them to keep up the rhythm, using his hips and the undulations of his wings. She mouths at his neck and hums softly.

“Feels nice,” she mumbles against him. “How do  _ you  _ feel?”

What a wonder is his darling detective, close enough to coming he can feel her inner muscles ripple around him, but still so concerned for his well-being. 

“Amazing.” His voice is hoarse, but he makes no effort to clear it. He knows how much she loves to hear him wrecked and rasping. “Chloe, love, you feel perfect. I…”

But words are lost to him as he approaches the verge, as he feels her rising with him. It’s hard to tell where he ends and she begins, and he doesn’t much care. Her heart might be beating in his chest the beat is so strong; his heat is hers, beading sweat above her lip that he bows his head to lick, meeting her mouth with his. In his pleasure and need, he tightens further around her ever so slightly, and she moans for it, for him, both of them teetering on that ancient precipice.

He knows she wouldn’t allow him to hide her away from the world, and he doesn’t want to, doesn’t ever want to deny her anything if he can help it. But here, in this moment, they might be the only beings in Creation, knelt in something better than prayer on soft sheets the color of the morning sun. It is as quiet as the universe before heat, before light, before entropy, waiting for time to begin again. The dawn breaks, their breaths mingle between them, and there is light. 

And it is good.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Fiat Lux](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22882822) by [Liannabob](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liannabob/pseuds/Liannabob)




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